


Water (Under The Bridge)

by mrs_d



Series: Dead Ends [1]
Category: due South
Genre: Episode Related, Episode: s03e12 Mountie on the Bounty, First Kiss, M/M, Post-Mountie on the Bounty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-17
Updated: 2017-06-17
Packaged: 2018-11-15 08:07:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11226825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrs_d/pseuds/mrs_d
Summary: I realize, as I’m putting on deodorant, that I could go the rest of my life without another fist fight with Benton Fraser. [originally written 2015]





	Water (Under The Bridge)

**Author's Note:**

> Found this old thing in my drafts folder and blew the dust off it. Unbeta'd, let me know if there's a grammar thing.

We left the car in Michigan, but when Welsh tells us we earned a few days off, Fraser suggests spending the weekend on the Canadian side of town, and I’m too tired to argue. So we get back on the I-75 (feels like I’ve been on that road forever), and Fraser lets me play the Ramones as loud as I want. It’s almost like being alone, and I don’t know whether that makes me happy or sad.

I’m not alone, though, and, let me tell you, having a Mountie in the passenger seat does wonders for your credibility with Canadian border guards. Fraser points out a little bed and breakfast just off the highway, and as soon as I park, he and Dief are out of the car in a flash.

I try not to take it personally. _Itching to stretch their legs,_ I tell myself, thinking about being so cramped together in that sub. That’d make anybody claustrophobic.

I check us in (one room, two beds), then go out to find Fraser looking at the sunset all quiet and thoughtful — too thoughtful for my tired brain. I give him his key without a word and go back inside. Climbing the stairs, I realize that I didn’t even ask him if he wanted to share a room. Autopilot, I guess. Still thinking the bad guys are after us, that we need to stick together.

* * *

Sometime in the night, I wake up panicking when I hear water running, but Fraser says _it’s okay, Ray, it’s just me,_ so I lie back down. A minute later I think I hear him say _I’ve got you_ , but I think maybe that part’s a dream.

Later, I wake up again. I roll over, see Fraser blinking at the ceiling. Think about saying something, but the sound of his breathing is like waves pulling me back to sleep.

* * *

Next morning I make a mental note to get Frannie a thank-you card for thinking to send Welsh and Thatcher with a couple changes of clothes and toiletries.

I take a shower and get dressed — so nice to get rid of that lake water smell — all while Fraser’s still sleeping in his bed. I think about maybe waking him up, but he’s peaceful, and seeing him peaceful sets off all kinds of warm feelings in my chest, something that’s new and freaky but also strangely familiar.

I realize, as I’m putting on deodorant, that I could go the rest of my life without another fist fight with Benton Fraser.

I force myself to go away and stop watching him, because it’s probably creepy, and the wolf is looking at me sideways like he thinks so too. I take him outside, and hang around downstairs in the cafe after, waiting for Fraser like a civilized person.   

He appears about a half an hour later, coming into the dining room almost panicked like he was when he found me handcuffed to a pipe and the water was rising. I raise my hand, so he sees me, and his face relaxes into a smile that I find myself returning. That’s also strangely familiar, that impulse. I don’t know when it started exactly.

I’m still trying to figure that out, to chase that feeling down, when I realize that Fraser’s talking, telling me about this music and art festival he saw posters for on the way into town.

“Sure,” I tell him, before I really realize that I’m agreeing to go with him.

But hey, Fraser looks pleased as punch, and I’m on vacation, so why not.

* * *

I swear to God, everything in Canada has something to do with ice. Middle of summer, arts and music festival, and where are we? In an arena. The clammy concrete smell is exactly the same as it was when I did skating lessons as a kid.

The wood creaks under my feet as we shuffle along, one table to the next, a whole herd of little old ladies in front of us picking up trinkets and putting them down again. It’s killing me to move slower than they are, but I have to keep a buffer between them and Fraser — who by the way looks really good in the tight jeans that Frannie packed for him — or we’d never get out of here.

“You think Frannie would like this?” I ask him.

I’m holding up a wooden turtle with some fancy pattern carved into its shell. Fraser leans closer to see — and whoa, hey, I can smell the complimentary shampoo and shower gel on him, how weird is that, normally he’s the guy sniffing everything. I hold still, try not to breathe too noticeably, and Fraser frowns.

“Does Francesca like turtles?”

I think about it a second, and put it down. “No, probably not. Just wanted to get her something to say thanks is all.”

“That’s commendable, Ray,” says Fraser, like thanking your fake sister for bringing you clothes so you don’t stink like Lake Superior deserves some kind of award.

The vendor notices our conversation and picks up a wooden cat. “How about this? Does she like cats?”

I try not to show on my face how ugly I think the cat is, and that gets me laughing, which I try to cover up with a cough. She’s looking at me funny now, so I say, as straight-faced as I can, “She’s allergic.”

I turn and pretty much vamoose then, and I hear Fraser behind me explain and turn the lady down, all polite and Canadian and very Mountie-like.

He catches up with me two tables down, and he’s just drawn a deep, _You know, Ray,_ lecture voice when there’s a crash on the other side of the arena, and a woman’s shout for help. I turn, reaching for a gun that’s not there, and see a teenager shoving his way through the crowd, holding a knife and a cash box.

“Great,” I mutter. “Just greatness.”

I look at Fraser and his eyes are already on mine. Our hands touch for just an instant before we take off. I follow the kid out the front door while Fraser loops around from the back. I don’t know how I know that’s the plan, but it is, and Fraser calls out _RCMP!_ and the crowd parts for me like Moses in the desert, and Fraser’s right where I expect him to be right when I need him — it’s immediate, instinctual, and adrenaline-spiking.

It’s hot, is what it is.

The kid scrabbles to a stop when Fraser cuts him off, and with him and Dief, we’ve got him trapped in a triangle, security guards making their way over, too, to complete the circle.

“Nowhere to go, kid,” I tell him. I can’t believe how young and scared he looks. He’s not gonna hurt us, I know it. He doesn’t want to hurt anyone.

“Put the knife down, son,” Fraser says calmly, walking up to him with his hands held in plain sight. “I’m afraid you’re under arrest.”

“You don’t look like a cop,” the boy complains.

“That’s because he’s a Mountie, you doof,” I explain, and for a fraction of a second Fraser looks like like he might smile.

In that fraction of a second, though, the kid acts, flinging the box at my head. I duck, it misses me, and Fraser’s got the kid by his shoulders. I take the knife out of his hand and give it to one of the security guards.

“Thanks, guys,” he says. His partner’s on the phone, probably with the actual cops.

“What can I say? We were in the area,” I answer with a shrug. “You got cuffs?”

“Uh, not exactly,” said the guard, pulling plastic restraints from his coat pocket.

“Plastic?” I say, because I can’t help it. _Canadians._

“Ray,” Fraser scolds, but I laugh.

“Come on, Fraser, the guy has plastic cuffs. Who has plastic cuffs?”

“They’ll hold,” the security guard protests, a little too defensively. He snaps them onto the boy’s wrists, and I just shake my head.

“Throw a gun while you’re at it,” I joke. Fraser’s glaring now, but I can tell he’s not really pissed.

“What’s with him?” the other guard asks, closing his phone.

“He’s American,” Fraser explains.

“Oh,” says the guard.

* * *

The local cops come fast — probably not much else to do around these parts. They put the kid in the back of a cruiser. Poor guy’s crying up a storm, but there’s not much to be done now. The cops take our statements in front of the arena because a group of rubberneckers have gathered at the back. When they say we’re free to go, and we head around the side of the building, the crowd’s still there, wide-eyed and whispering.

“Jeez,” I mutter. “Slow news day or what?”

The vendor who was robbed gives both me and Fraser big hugs after the cops leave. She tells us that she’s always known that boy is no good. I want to roll my eyes again, but Fraser sends me a look, so I figure _When in Rome..._ and I smile and do the polite Canadian thing until everybody goes away.

Fraser looks pretty proud.  

* * *

We hang out a little longer, watch a couple bands play, and around suppertime Fraser asks if I want to get out of there. I nod, exhausted and hungry, and he lets me drive back to the B&B without a fight. My ears are still humming a bit from the loud music, so I keep the radio down.

When we're about halfway there, I shoot a glance in Fraser’s direction, catch him looking back.

“What are you looking at?” I ask him.

He doesn’t look away. “You.”

The car drifts a little, and I swing my eyes back to the road.

“I’m sorry, Ray,” Fraser says a minute later.

I shake my head. “My fault. Should’ve been paying attention to my driving.”

“No, not that.”

I frown, confused. “Then what?”

I feel more than see Fraser hesitate before he starts talking again. “Ray Vecchio told me once I was the most irritating man in the world,” he says out of nowhere. “That it wasn’t easy to be friends with me.”

I have no idea how to react to this.  

“He didn’t seem to understand that he irritated me as much as I did him some days,” Fraser goes on. “We were good friends, but he irked me. On purpose, I think.”

I nod slowly. “And he didn’t see you flap,” I say, and then I realize that that didn’t come out right. “I mean, he must have thought you couldn’t be flapped.”

Fraser cracks his neck. “Do you mean he thought I was unflappable?”

“Yeah, that’s the one,” I say. “No flapping.”

“I see,” says Fraser, all quiet and thoughtful. I wonder if maybe I hurt his feelings somehow.

“I know that’s not true,” I add, trying to make it better.

“You do, Ray,” Fraser agrees. “You...”

He pauses. Probably licks his lips or pulls his ear or scratches his eyebrow — I’ve got all his little mannerisms memorized by now, I don’t need to see them firsthand.

“You irritate me sometimes, too,” Fraser says finally.  

I wince. Nobody can do deadpan blunt like Benton Fraser.

“And I know I irritate you,” he goes on quickly. “I know I’m not the easiest person to work with. And yet you’ve tried, since the day I met you, to treat me as an equal. You don’t talk down to me. Much,” he added.

I manage a quick smile in his direction. “Only when you lick electrical sockets.”

He smiles back, resigned. “Which I’ve come to accept.”

There’s another pause. I don’t think he’s done talking yet. I wait him out. 

“When you hit me,” he says, and then he stops.

I grimace. I knew this talk would come sooner or later. “Yeah, I know. I’m sorry.”

“No, Ray,” he says, too loud and too fast. “You insisted I hit you back. You insisted we be square.”

“Well, yeah,” I muttered. My face is red, I know it.

“So I’m sorry, too.”

“Okay,” I tell him with a nod. “So it’s behind us.”

I say this almost like a question, and when he doesn’t answer, I get a little anxious. There’s our hotel on the left, so I brake, signal, turn into the lot. Find us a good parking spot, all the while wondering why he hasn’t said anything yet.

Finally, when I turn off the engine, he says, so quiet I can barely hear him, “Ray Vecchio would never have hit me.”

 _There it is,_ I think. The thing that I can never live up to, never replace, con job or not.

“He thought I was a saint,” Fraser goes on. “I tried to tell him that we all were. But he thought I was a superhero, and a part of him resented me for it. But the other day, you said I don’t have a cape. And that you don’t have one, either.”

“No,” I admit, “but you were right: I carry a badge. And your brown belt thing—”

“Ray made fun of my uniform, my job, my actions. Regularly,” Fraser insists, and he sounds almost bitter now, which is something I didn’t think was possible. “I think, on some level, he didn’t see me as a person. Or a police officer. Or a ... man.”

That’s new. I look sharply over at him, but his eyes are locked on the windshield like he’s afraid to look at me.

“You are, though,” I tell him quietly, and his mouth quirks up like he wants to smile but can’t quite manage it. “I can maybe see where Vecchio was coming from,” I add, in fairness to my namesake. “A lot of people think that about you, maybe. But—”

“But you don’t,” Fraser interrupts me. “I know, Ray, and that’s my point. I don’t have a cape.”

“And I don’t have a cape,” I finish for him. He nods.

“Ray, can I....” he begins, and bites his bottom lip. Hesitates again. All at once I realize he’s drowning. And when I was drowning—

I dive in. No buddy-breathing, no standard procedure. Just my lips on his, hoping that my instinct’s telling me what he’s trying to logic out, and praying that I won’t get another taste of Fraser’s fist for this.

I don’t. I try to pull away after a moment, but Fraser’s a statue coming to life, reaching up, grabbing the lapels of my jacket in his fists, yanking me close, closer than we’ve been since the submarine, since our arms brushed on the deck of the Bounty and the sun above us made everything seem like it was going to be all right.

And as his hot, sweet tongue moves over mine, I think, maybe it will be. 


End file.
